A Time for Revenge
by JC Sexton
Summary: A retired Shadowrunner in hiding is forced back into the game after he and his family have been brutally attacked.
1. Prologue

**--PROLOGUE**

This life's five windows of the soul

Distorts the Heavens from pole to pole

And leads you to believe a lie

When you see with, not thro' the eye.

--William Blake, _"The Everlasting Gospel"_

It was an unusually pleasant night in Seattle. If it weren't for the drizzling rain, it would be almost perfect. Unfortunately, like all good things, it had to end sometime.

Ken Matsuya was only trying to enjoy a pleasant Friday evening with a stroll along the waterfront before catching a cab the rest of the way home. Of all the beautiful sites in Seattle, Ken appreciated piers along the waterfront the most. The lights of ships reflecting off the dark water and the shadows of the peaked hills surrounding Puget Sound combine for a serene image out of some sort of fantasy novel. The fact it was late enough that he was the only soul in sight was even better...he was a man who appreciated his solitude.

Although it was obvious from the gracefulness of his stride that it wasn't needed to compensate for any handicap, he walked with elegant silver tipped cane, a fierce dragon glaring from its handle. A heavy black leather cloak hung from his broad shoulders protected his expensive charcoal gray business suit from the mist that hung ethereal-like around him.

He walked into the famed Waterfront Park, his heavy black shoes thudding dully on the worn wooden pier. The park was lined with lamps (some of them actually working), benches, and high, curving railings. There were bronze statues of both Christopher Columbus as well as Chief Seattle. Ken walked past all those to the famous "Waterfront Fountain" made of cast and welded bronze and shaped in cubical structures, Ken thought of it as a glorious cacophony of water, bronze, right angles and hard edges. He stopped momentarily to listen to the water run and splash over the fountain; he found the lights and sounds to be mesmerizing. Reaching into his suit pocket for his cigarette case and lighter, he paused to light a cigarra, the glow of the flame reflected off his subtle Asian features and displaying his close cropped black hair and pointed elven ears. The soft flame also caused the pupils of his hazel eyes to redden...briefly giving him a demonic appearance. As he snapped the antique gold lighter shut with a flick of his wrist, a gruff baritone voice rumbled from behind him.

"Hey pal, ya gotta spare one of those?"

The speed with which Ken spun around betrayed his cybernetic enhancements, but his new companions stood indifferent. The trio was less than twenty paces away from him, and they were all dressed in tattered denim pants and black leather jackets. Ken silently cursed himself for letting the sound of the fountain distract him…they should have never gotten that close. The tallest amongst them was over eight feet tall, his size and lumpy silhouette gave him away as a Troll...with the shortest only a foot or so less. Their faces were concealed in shadow...but Ken had an idea of what they might look like, it appeared the Troll had two Orks accompanying him. After glimpsing a silver skull pin on one of their lapels he also knew exactly what they were.

Dissassemblers.

The Dissassemblers were probably the nastiest gang in Downtown Seattle where they run a brisk business in the organ trade. The run illegal "chop shops" and move body parts obtained from hospitals or if sources are slim they find some unwilling "donors" to help them.

Kind of like what these three were doing.

"I'm afraid this is my last one, sorry." Ken kept his voice polite, but adjusted his stance to a more defensive posture. At least with the fountain behind him they needed to stay in front of him.

"That' okay." The shortest Ork replied. He got to wear the pin so Ken figured him for the leader. "That fancy watch and lighter will do just fine." He and Troll displayed the baseball bats that they had concealed behind their legs, looking more like nightsticks in their huge hands. The second Ork reached into his well worn jacket and pulled out wicked looking foot long knife and began twirling it with an ease and practice born of a lifetime on the streets.

Ken flicked his cigarra over the railing and into the waters of Puget Sound and stood defiantly, not even a hint of fear on his handsome features. "Why do I doubt that's all you want?" he casually asked.

The gigantic Troll responded...a grin in his voice, "Ooohhh…he's gonna be a fun one." He looked to the "leader", "Hey Mole...I don't think dis 'uns gonna cooperate."

"I think your right ugly." Ken responded.

The Ork named Mole looked at his knife-wielding compatriot. "Yo, Prospect, why don't you go help the gentleman change his mind? Just remember that those pointed ears are good for some cred and keep his eyes in one piece."

The Ork stepped into the light allowing Ken to see his face for the first time. The dark stringy hair and tusks protruding from the ganger's lower lip showed Ken he was correct in guessing the race of his attackers. The "Prospect" had also painted the image of a skull in bone white over his face and a giant letter "P" was on the front of his jacket. Ken guessed him to be about 16, and he appeared to be more nervous than not. Ken noticed a small aerosol can in his offhand…probably some form of anesthesia spray. "Is ya gonna behave dandelion breath, or is I gonna hafta hurt you before we put you out?"

"Go home to your momma, son." Ken said, not unsympathetically. "You want no part of this."

All nervousness left the young Orks face and he pressed the tip of his knife against Ken's chest. "Fuck you! Like you know what I want you pointy-eared nip!"

Ken exploded into action. Almost too fast to be seen, he grabbed the Ork by the wrist and gave a sharp twist. To his credit, the ganger didn't scream when his wrist and elbow shattered with a resonating crack. He did, however, drop the knife and the gas canister. Ken followed up by driving the heavy silver dragon head of his cane into the young Ork's throat, caving in his larynx and flooding his lungs with blood and tissue. The "Prospect" was dead before he hit the ground, drowned on his own blood.

Ken looked up at the other two Dissassemblers as the stared for a full three seconds…mouths agape. The one called Mole snapped out of it first "I don't fuckin' believe it!" He screamed in rage, "You'll bleed for that! Sweeney...waste the slant eyed prick!"

The big Troll charged, setting up a swing with his bat that would knock Ken's head across the Sound if it connected. Ken effortlessly ducked under the clumsy attack, and shoved the tip of his cane into Sweeney's right armpit, simultaneously depressing the stud on the handle that discharged the over 100,000 volt charge stored in the silver tip. The would be butcher roared more in frustration than pain as the entire right half of his body became paralyzed.

With a fist the size of a Christmas ham, Sweeny swung at Ken's head. Calmly, Ken drew the sword that was concealed inside the walking stick and spun under the vicious swing. The Troll ganger fell screaming to his knees unable to stand after finding both his Achilles tendons had been sliced. Ken then slid the three foot long blade into the base of the bellowing trolls skull...silencing him instantly. He let the body of the Troll fall into the fountains water with the sword still embedded in his skull.

Suddenly, Ken felt a white hot pain in his shoulder and an invisible force spinning him around and driving him to the wet boards of the pier, effectively knocking him senseless. It took a few moments for him to realize he had been shot, and despite the armor woven into his cloak, he felt the warmth of his own blood running down his arm.

The remaining Dissassembler walked into Ken's field of vision, a smoking revolver looking not unlike a toy in the giant's callused hand. Almost absent mindedly Ken noticed that Mole's entire head was painted white and apparently he had lost his nose at some point…a gaping hole in the middle of his face where his nose should be gave the Ork a particularly sinister look. Ken grunted as he felt all the air rush from his lungs as his assailant stepped on his chest and took aim. But something was wrong. The troll's face and head seemed to shift, as if Ken was looking at it from underwater. The distortion became more and more radical and then settled on a shape that caused Ken to make and audible gasp.

The appearance was that of Ken's own face.

Mole/Ken began laughing sinisterly and centered the big gun right between Ken's eyes. In a deeper version of Ken's own voice, the twisted amalgamation sneered, "What do you see at night when he demons come?"

And he pulled the trigger.

* * *

As I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep,

And if I die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

--Christian bedtime prayer

Ken Milner sat bolt upright, his skin and bed sheets were soaked with sweat. His muscled chest was heaving as if he had just completed a marathon, the dragon tattoo across the top of his shoulder and down his back seeming to writhe with a life of it's own. He looked around, wondering what happened to the Dissassemblers and the waterfront. But it all came back to him, he hadn't bee to Seattle in almost fifteen years.

This was home…in Denver.

He was safe.

He laid back down, his breath finally beginning to return to a normal rate. Ken looked to his left, studying the woman next to him. Even with her lack of makeup and unkempt red hair, she was still every bit as stunning as the first time he met her. He studied her every feature. From the closed, long lashed, eyelids that hid the emerald treasures underneath, to the surgical steel data port just visible noticeable behind her left ear, to the perfectly shaped snow white breasts as they rose and fell evenly with her breathing.

His abrupt waking hadn't even caused her to stir.

As he gazed lovingly at his wife he was reminded of a poem he had once read. Although the exact words escaped him, he remembered the title..."This Angel Next To Me." It truly was fitting that her name was Angela.

Feeling the cotton forming in his mouth, Ken rose, put his terrycloth bathrobe on and padded barefoot towards the kitchen.

His head somewhat clearer and armed with a glass of juice, he headed back to bed. As he passed the twins' bedroom he peeked inside. Although Tessa and Marcus were both born on the same day a little over ten years ago, they were definitely two separate people with very distinct personalities.

Tessa shared her mother's looks. Her Strawberry blond hair was peeking above the mountain of blankets as she gently snored. But she had inherited Ken's almond shaped eyes...giving her a very exotic appearance. Because of her mixed heritage, Tessa had been the target of many cruel jokes from the other children at school. So, despite Angela's very loud objections, Ken took her to the back yard and began teaching her the how to protect herself using the martial arts that were part of her Asian heritage. Soon, not surprisingly, the hazing stopped. Ken smiled in the dark as he remembered how the two of them had done exceedingly well at a local tournament a week ago, the evidence of which was displayed with the ribbons hanging on the wall above her bed and the chrome first place trophy that rested on the pillow beside her.

Tessa's twin brother Marcus was almost a study in contrast from her. Marcus more resembled Ken with his straight black hair and deep toned skin, but he inherited his mothers piercing green eyes. Marcus was also very frail, the result of constantly being ill as an infant. Tessa took great pride in her self-appointed duty as her brothers' protector. But what Marcus lack in physical prowess, he more than made up for in intellect. He possessed an "Above genius IQ" according to his last exam. He was rarely found without his nose buried in one of his treasured books (a gift from Angela's mother before she passed away 3 years ago) or glued to the computer. Another possibility that sent Ken and Angela's heart alight was the fact that Marcus' teacher at school had told them Marcus might be magically adept. They had plans s to see the doctor in a week's time for testing to find out for sure.

Ken smiled, catching himself puffing his chest in fatherly pride. He closed the door and returned to his own bed. As he closed his eyes to sleep, he thought, hopefully, that the demons got what they wanted out of him and would wait until a later night to return.


	2. Chapter 1

**-CHAPTER ONE**

"He who fights monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.

And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes into you." -Nietzsche

She sat alone in the dark office, the only light being a burnt orange glow coming from the VR display hanging in the air in front of her. Her fingers danced across the projected virtual display, manipulating the various holopics. The disembodied voice of the investigator she hired briefed her on his findings.

"…speaking? This guy was some kind of legend in the runner community." His whiskey and cigarette worn voice stated.

"Shadowrunners are not interested in legends unless they are football players, Urban Brawlers or sim porn stars. If the general population knew of him and the full breadth of his exploits, he would be more a villain than legend." She replied to the air. "Not many people make a hero or a legend out of such a person no matter how successful he may be."

The investigator continued, "Meh. The people I managed to interview spoke highly of his skills but not to well about his personality. That one elf bitch, Blade, that fixer I saw in Seattle seemed to be rather happy that he was dead. The words she used were, 'Those that hang with him tend to hang for him.'

"His results were certainly much admired but the fact he was so cold hearted, not to mention mercilessness, understandably, seemed to push people away."

The lady in shadow started sorting through the virtual images in the air before her.

The first was of a group of young, Asian elves, clothes dirty and unkempt. A hand drawn sign was positioned in front of the group. A child's scrawl in Japanese Kanji was translated in red ink along the bottom edge of the image, "Yomi Island Imperial Education Class, 2036." A red circle was drawn around the face of an elven youth, no more than 10 years old. Even this young, she noted he had a hard look in his eyes.

The Investigator narrated for her. "Right after this image was taken he was recruited by a mid-powered Oyabun as a sort of valet and messenger. I couldn't dig up why the Yaks took up an orphaned elf, but at some point he ended up in the Watada-rengo family under Akira Watada himself.

"I found out that he was in Seattle in January of 2043 when the Yakuza cleaned house. All I know about his involvement in that is that he got very bloody and was permitted to go freelance by Watada soon after that."

The next image was dated 2052. It showed the Asian elf sitting at a table outside a sunlit café. She recognized the location as a coffee house in downtown Seattle. There was a small mug with the establishment's logo on it beside him on the table. His right forearm rested on the table and a cigarette between the fingers of his right hand hung negligently down from the edge of the table. It seemed a careless pose but looking at those dark eyes showed he was missing nothing going on around him. He was both waiting and stalking…like the true predator she knew him to be.

The third image was from a year later than the last one. It was a face and shoulders and left arm, blurred out by motion, but of the same man. He was looking with careful, narrowed eyes at something, probably the photographer's face. I miniature camera on a lapel pin or shirt button she guessed. Also, given the glint of metal in the elve's blurred hand, unmistakably a blade of some sort, she guessed it was the last image the photographer had taken.

The fourth image was from just a few weeks ago. Taken from the left flank and from quite close. It showed the same man in a dark suit without a tie. That caused her to smirk a bit…he had always despised ties. It was understandable enough; she had seen the garrote scar around his neck.

He was walking down a wide, empty street and passed a shuttered shop whose sign read "Pacific Imports". He looked as if he was going somewhere urgently. The clean-cut profile was pointing straight ahead and the crook of his right elbow suggested that his right hand was in the pocket of his black leather sport coat. She reflected that the image was probably taken from a camera installed in someone's cyber-eyes and while in a parked car. She thought he looked as dangerous and as determined as ever.

Almost reading her face, the detective voiced, "He was rushing to break stop some old bag from getting rolled. When the punks saw him they tried to scare him off but when he wouldn't back down they split in a hurry."

The fifth and last image was marked "_Pass 2072"._ The corner of the Confederate American States flag and the stamped letters "…_uix Checkp…"_were visible in opposing corners. The image, which was greatly enlarged, was most likely made at a city sector checkpoint. She carefully went over the projection of the face in front of her.

It was a dark, clean-cut face with a scar running from his left earlobe toward his chin along his jaw-line. His deep hazel eyes were wide and level under straight, narrow, black eyebrows. The hair was slicked back from his forehead, displaying a very pronounced widow's peak. He had cut his hair shorter than she had remembered…no longer sporting his trademark ponytail.

The investigator spoke up. "So it would seem your guess was correct. I did a background check and the man in those last images, Ken Milner. Turns out nothing past 15 or so years old pans out. Roughly the same time our Yakuza assassin, Ken Matsuya is declared dead and lost at sea off the coast of Greece. Upstanding businessman Ken Milner shows up in Denver just under 8 months after Matsuya is fish food. His background is tight but my hacker was able to push through it. Whoever set it up was no slouch"

"Thank you for your hard work. I assume you remember my requirements for confidentiality?"

"Of course."

"Then the remainder of your payment will be in the agreed upon account shortly." She disconnected the call before the investigator could respond.

She sat alone in the dark for several minutes, looking at the images floating in front of her. She took a small tele-com from her pocket and slowly…deliberately dialed a number from memory.

"We are so accustomed to disguise ourselves to others

that in the end we become disguised to ourselves

- Author François de la Rochefoucauld

It's 75 degrees and partly cloudy…in January. You have got to love Denver.

Comparisons to his dreams from the previous night were not lost on Ken as he walked to work. Gone were the cane and jewelry, and the expensive Italian tailored suit was replaced by an off the rack charcoal slacks and blazer that was just short of high shine, a plain white dress shirt and an obnoxious tie that was a father's day gift. He still kept looking over his shoulder…half expecting to see three gangers stalking him. But no. No Dissassemblers. No drizzling rain. No fountain. Ken was just another wage slave bustling along with the other wage slaves down Colfax headed to the downtown checkpoint.

For the thousandth time Ken bemoaned the headaches of living in a sectored city. He and his family lived in the CAS sector. Ken worked in the Sioux sector while Angela worked in the UCAS sector. Sometimes Ken felt that the process of carving up the city took less paperwork than what was required of its citizens, who needed a plethora of residence papers, passports, school trip visas and work visas and the applications involved in each of them. The whole "tax-free" thing was a good perk though.

Ken was still trying to get used to living under the domain of a Great Dragon with apparent attitude and sibling rivalry issues but it was still a good place to get lost and re-invent yourself.

Ken strolled up to his storefront noting, thankfully, that no new graffiti or bullet holes marred the steel protective shudder. After unchaining and raising the heavy door, he thumbed open the lock to the sliding gate. A quick change from sport coat to an apron and Pacific Imports was open for business.

After arriving in Denver and gaining his new identity, Ken soon discovered a life retired from the shadows was boring and he desperately needed something to do. Using contacts he developed in China, Japan and South East Asia, and through several covers and bribes, Ken was able to set up shop as a purveyor of true Jade jewelry, expensive silks and authentic oriental antiques. Soon after he added specialty teas and spices to his inventory. Every now and then his shipments would include gaudy Asian decorations like tacky wall scrolls, small statues of Foo dogs and other beings from Chinese mythology or cheaply made knives and swords. So now his shop looked like something of a cross between a Chinatown pawnshop and an Opium den. And Ken wouldn't have it any other way. The local talismongers bought the jade to make fetishes and focuses, tourists bought the brick-a-brack, and the resident geriatric population loved his variety of teas.

He wasn't open an hour before he was getting his ear chatted off by a member of said geriatric population. Mrs. Chen was a widow who lived in a small apartment a block away from Ken's shop with just her four cats to keep her company. Ken was busy filling her order from the glass jars behind the counter while she animatedly filled him in on the local gossip and goings on, reinforcing Ken's belief that Government and Corporate Intelligence gatherers should look up old Mrs. Chen and give her a job as an instructor.

The day went on as usual. A visit from Sylvia, the Elven talismonger with the looks of a simsense star (and a flirty nature that, despite his promiscuous nature when he ran the shadows, never failed to make Ken uncomfortable), resulted in a sale that covered the shops rent for the following month. Later that afternoon Ken busted an Ork juv named "Mouse" trying to steal the same gaudy bracelet she'd been trying to boost for months. Ken decided to offer her a job to earn it...as always. And as always she refused.

A call from Angela asking him to pick up a bucket of chicken on the way home and it was closing time. After turning on the alarms and securing the metal shutter, Ken strolled back home. He noticed some dark clouds coming over the mountains to the west.

There was a storm coming.

"Very few people can be totally ruthless. It isn't easy; it takes more strength than you might believe."

-Han, "Enter the Dragon"

The hotel room was dark and dusty. The only light was leaking in through the half closed blinds. He sat alone in a chair in the corner, sniffing a gray powder off the back of his burn-scarred hand. He was a typically stock Ork. Wearing ragged clothes…unkempt if not quite up to homeless standards. Greasy, wiry hair peeked out from under a knit cap. Aside from his badly damaged right hand, the entire right side of his face was badly scarred from a burn…leaving him with a cataract and rheumy eyes that he used to look over the room.

What was tied to the bed was once human, and given the clothes scattered about the room, more than likely she was a lady of the evening. She was naked…but not that you could tell because the flesh had been stripped from her body. Her eyes were burned out empty voids and the ragged breath coming from the lipless mouth showed she was still alive.

The Ork in the corner held out his right hand, palm up and a small flame sparked in the palm of his hand.

In a voice barely above a whisper he spoke "Take her".

The fire elemental jumped from his hand and began incinerating the creature on the bed. Fortunately she had passed the point of feeling pain some time ago.

As the Ork looked on…a small smile on his face...he felt his pocket secretary begin to ring.


End file.
